Relinquish
by Keil
Summary: Éomer suffers the loss of his parents, and has a long way to go before he becomes Lord of the Mark.


**Author's Note:**

Characters and the world of Arda copyright Tolkien and all that.

This is a fic exploring Éomer's life from the time he lost his parents until the time he becomes Lord of Rohan. No betas, but I've gone through it as many times as possible before my brain explodes.

Reviews are greatly appreciated, I try to respond to everyone here or in email.  
Livejournal containing updates, art, etc: livejournal.com/~strange_fate 

Warnings: None, really, although at some point, this story may have some eventual slashy overtones. _However_, any specific events will be left out in favour of exploration in offshoot stories, to keep it out of this one.

**Chapter 1: Echoes**

III 3002 

Small hands crushed patterns of fabric between their fingers as the boy knelt beside the, knees furrowed into the pelt of a red deer adorning the flagstone. The soft cloth piled between his touch, and his knuckles shone white in a distant fought battle to keep the unshed tears in his eyes forever trapped. He had watched her waste away, watched the passing of days bring with them a tired breath to her voice and a bend to her back, watched her eyes sink shallowly into the dimness of her once radiant face. And so his mother had passed, in an illness wrought from the loss of her husband beneath a sky so few moons ago. 

He could not count the hours he'd waited hunched by the bed, though he had at last released her hand when the heat of his own could no longer keep it warm. And now, as what light left in her finally faded into the shadows of the room, the weight of his loss came crushing down upon his young shoulders with an intensity bare of mercy. The reflection of firelight shimmering in his eyes was dulled as he sat, staring, and at length a heavy hand alighted on his back. 

"Éomer." The strong voice came to him first as a faint whispering, but it returned a second time with full force, forcing him blindly from his stupor. The boy whirled in a haze, jerking back from the contact until he nearly fell onto the bed. He caught himself on the edge of the mattress and scrambled upright. It was the King, but in his grief he forgot himself, teeth clenching as he put himself between the man and his mother. 

"Get out!" he shouted, his voice breaking as his skin flushed above the effort of holding back his tears. He would not cry in front of this man. "Out!" Balling his hands into fists, he drew himself up as tall as he could, though the figure setting his shoulders and almost standing on tip toe was but slight before the formidable form of Théoden. The both sensed this, but he was determined not to show it. 

The King appeared somewhat taken aback, and reached out a hand without bending down. But the boy slapped the arm away, his face contorting as his breath seared his lungs and he somehow managed to keep his eyes riveted darkly on Théoden's. Some small part of his mind fluttered softly to the forefront, a soothing voice assuring him that the King had come only to see his sister, to mourn her death with the same sadness that encapsulled his heart. But he shoved it aside roughly; he cared not -- it was his mother, his mother!, and he could not stand to appear so before her, even in death. The King did not move, and an instant later Éomer was feeling, soft boots scraping madly over the barren granite of the floor as he raced out of the room and down the corridor. 

His legs could not carry him fast enough, and the force with which they hit the ground jarred his small frame with each stride. He paid no heed to the pain that bit into his joints, knowing only he could not run far enough. The sole of one boot slipped as he turned all too quickly into another hall, and he scrabbled to keep his footing, managing at the last second to pull his feet beneath him again. Just as he rounded the corner, he came to a blinding halt, slamming full force into someone much larger than he. Strong hands grasped him before he could fall, clutching his upper arms and dragging him back to his feet. 

"Hold, young one," came a deep, but lulling voice from above him. The boy tilted his chin to look up into the face of a young man, whose eyes were alert but soft beneath a dark, drawn brow. It was the King's son, Théodred, towering above him. Éomer swallowed audibly, sparing a brief moment to wonder if he would ever be that tall, and then he cast his eyes to the hands still gripping his arms. Théodred loosened his hold on the boy when Éomer again looked up, and slid his hands to the child's shoulder's supportively. "What harries you so?" the man asked softly. He knew well of his aunt's passing, indeed he had been on course to join his father at her side when his cousin had so unceremoniously run headlong into him. 

Éomer felt something give within his breath, and his breath hitched sharply, his lungs feeling as if they were caught upon shards of broken rib. Suddenly he found he could no longer easily draw breath, and he at last felt the unshed tears spill onto his cheeks. His eyes wrung themselves closed in an effort to banish them as he threw his arms around the man's waist. Théodred blinked, and let out a small 'oh' of surprise, but he wrapped his arms gently around the boy and ruffled his hair with a light hand, hushing him softly. Éomer's shoulders shuddered with each breath as he sobbed, a strangled sound escaping from him every now and again, and the man let him cry. 

Pulling back, Éomer wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt, trails of spreading dark fabric mottled his forearm where the cloth caught the last of his tears. His face was pinched with shame, and he found himself troubled when it came to meeting his cousin's eye. The past month's had found him steadily within the company of the King's son, and had wakened in Éomer a growing respect and admiration for the man, who to him appeared kind and gentle, but at the same time strong and proud. He dreamt of learning the ways of a warrior, of joining the Muster and riding the hills of the Riddermark on a great steed just as Théodred did. And now he stood before his cousin, shedding tears with no more control than a young girl. His face burned. 

Théodred knelt before the boy, taking his chin between a rough forefinger and thumb and lifting Éomer's head as if he could read the boy's mind. "Tears are not a weakness," he assured, his gaze steady but affable, a well of young wisdom. "It takes strength for a man to cry." He smiled, then, and his cousin could not help but be warmed by it. Théodred had just called him a man! Éomer managed a small smile of his own, and it would have brightened had it not been tempered with a sudden realisation. 

"I am alone," he said timidly as his eyes became hooded, and his gaze crashed to the floor. 

He did not see Théodred shake his head. "Not alone," the man said, gripping the boy's shoulder tenderly. "You have your sister --" Éomer could not help but make a face at this, but it was halfhearted, and a grin found its way into the man's voice "-- and you have me." Éomer looked up, eyes shining behind residual tears. "We will be as brothers," Théodred continued, buffing the boy's shoulder. "You need only look for me if you have any burden that needs lifting, or even for any reason whatever." The boy nodded, sniffling solemnly. "Théoden will be there for you as well," the King's son added, his tone a bit more cautious. He had become quite fond of the boy, who showed a braveness and intelligence he had not often seen in a child so young, and his heart ached for him. Théodred wished for Éomer to realise he still had family, but he did not seek to give the boy cause to think they would try to replace what he had lost. 

Éomer's hopeful expression drowned beneath a wave of newly conflicted emotions. A sudden colour rose in his skin and his eyes grew wide and fearful. "I was very ruse to him," the boy whispered, half covering his mouth with a hand slick with drying tears. 

Théodred could not help the way his mouth twisted wryly at this, but he managed just barely to bite back a laugh, even in these somber moments. "Éomer, I do not think there is call for worry. I am quite certain the King will take into consideration the circumstances." At the last, his voice trailed off with an undulation of uncertainty, not wishing to throw his young cousin so quickly back into the turmoil of his loss. 

The boy's face did not fall too much, but this was still too much for his cousin. Théodred shook his head, reaching into a pocket well hidden in his leather over tunic. When he brought his hand back out, it was closed tightly around something that glinted as he move his hand to hover before Éomer. Uncurling his fingers, he revealed a small, folded knife, the silver shine of the blade slightly tarnished with long years, but still glowing. The brass tinge of the handle was carved intricately with charging horses, bare of riders as their legs thrashed in a fierce gallop, heads tossing and mails and tails flowing like violent banners. Éomer marvelled, hesitantly reaching out to stroke the cool metal with two fingers, tracing the carved horses as if they might bolt if he worried them too much. Théodred smiled. 

"Take it," the older man said, watching as his cousin carefully wrapped his fingers around the handle and lifted it from his palm. Éomer carefully unfolded the blade from its equine refuge, easing a finger down the sharp edge, tilting the knife and watching the failing dusk light gleam as fire in ruddy streaks. The boy's eyes had regained some measure of brightness as he looked back at Théodred, his mouth slack. 

"I couldn't, my Lord," he said in a distant voice, the way children do when there is something they so greatly desire but remain afraid to ask for it. It made his cousin chuckle. Éomer delicately folded the knife and clutched it, the small weapon looking much bigger in his young hand. 

"Keep it," Théodred said, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder and levelling his gaze. "And we must dispense with the formalities. Call me by my name; we are family." His eyes were soft, but Éomer could see a veiled pain in their depths when he next spoke. The words fell from the man's lips like work stone. "I never knew my mother's face," he said after a time. "She died at my birth." Éomer frowned ever so faintly, and then he threw his arms around his cousin's neck. 

"Thank you, Théodred," he said, never loosening his grip on the precious gift. He felt Théodred nod and he stepped back. The man worried for a moment for the boy's reaction, but Éomer surprised him with a fractional upturning of his mouth, half hidden behind fingers. The man scrutinised the child for a moment more, then stood, holding out his hand. 

"Come," Théodred said kindly, and Éomer placed his hand in his cousin's, feeling the thick texture of the man's weathered hands and wishing his own were rougher, worn more from duty and hardened in battle. In his other hand he gripped the knife as if he expected it to be torn from his at any moment, and the two turned the corner that had been responsible for their encounter, their footsteps lighter as they headed back down the hall. 

The boy's steps shortened as they approached to door to his mother's room. They had been staying in Meduseld at Théoden's insistence since the news came of his father's death at the hand of Orcs. The moment the King realised what a torment the death of his sister's husband had become to her, he'd ordered room made for Théodwyn and her children within the walls of the Golden Hall. He had hoped being closer to family would lessen the despairing burden of her heart. Now, from this day, it would be only Éomer and his sister. 

Théodred too easy notice of the hesitation, and his fingers squeezed Éomer's hand. The boy looked up, a worried tension gathering around his eyes, but Théodred smiled gently, and he was able to find the courage to pass through the doorway. Théodred had grown into the strong man he was without ever knowing a mother, and Éomer would not allow himself to fall further into shame by running away in the face of losing his only now. Théodred released his hand and instead gripped his shoulder lightly as they entered. 

Éomer discovered himself fussing with the bottom of his tunic, and he suddenly clenched his fingers, forcing himself to cease his nervous movements. Théoden turned from Théodwyn's side and looked him in the eye. Somehow keeping himself from looking away, Éomer withstood the King's scrutiny with a straight back and level brow, though a very large part of him wanted to cross his arms and retreat. With an audible contraction of his throat, he folded one arm on front of his waist, slipped the other behind him, still gripping his gift, and bent forward. 

"I wish to apologise, my Lord," the boy said, almost gritting his teeth in an attempt to fend of a quaver in his voice. "It was not my intent to lose hold of my temper, nor to forget my place. It was inexcusable of me to speak so." He held the bow a short while longer before straightening, For an instant, he thought he saw a shimmer of liquid in the corner of Théoden's eye, and as will a faint smile on the man's lips, but the King was too soon standing for him to be sure. A heavy hand found the point of his shoulder. 

"You are a strong boy," the King said in a voice not dissimilar to a rumbling brook, looking down at him without entirely tilting his head forward. "And I find today, you are also easily forgiven." He squeezed Éomer's shoulder and stepped away to speak with Théodred. 

The King's departure left Éomer's view of his mother unhindered now, and the voices behind him became muffled as he stared, his hands folding slowly in front of his belt. The boy thought he might cry again, but he felt no more tears threatening to spill. A voice called his name, and at length he turned away, looking back to see Théodred standing by the door with an upturned palm extended. 

"Come, Éomer," his cousin said kindly. "It is time to say your farewells. The funeral will be tomorrow," he added softly, with a small inclination of his head. 

Nodding, Éomer turned one last time to his mother's side, reaching out and placing a hand on one of hers. Her skin was now cold as the winter wind that would soon chase the sun from the valley, and felt thick beneath his fingers. He said nothing for a long while, then at last let his fingers slip away. Théodred welcomed him with an arm around his shoulders, and together they walked from the shadows of the room. 

* 

There had been no wind that day, no wisps of cloud floating upon an unreachable breeze, only the blue sky stretching ungoverned overhead. The banners hung limply on their posts, lending little colour or movement to the bleak procession below. Éomer heard no cries from the animals, wild or tamed, and even the soft crunch of valley grass beneath the feet of grim parade seemed muted to his ears. He walked slowly, his sister Éowyn at his side, oblivious to the melodic rise of a funeral dirge sung from so short a way up the hill. When at last they reached the grave site, Éomer watched his mother disappear with unfocused eyes. He did not wish to cry, but found no relief that he did not feel the need to. His heart ached with the loss, and in this he recalled the last months of her life, the way her careful tendings had dwindled. He had less and less often found himself the recipient of a warm embrace. Rarer were the more embarrassing attentions that deep within him he found he missed the most: a smoothing of his hair, a bit of cloth taken to a corner of his dirty face. But even losing her a breath at a time did little to ready his heart for such emptiness. 

In a haze, Éomer found himself fingering the pale petals of the simbelmynë he held close to his breast, and suddenly a wind kicked up, tousling his hair and clothes and sending the flowers drifting over the hill of the grave, slender stems catching in the tall grass, white jewels in a green sea. His hand lingered after them, but he quickly let his arm fall to his side. He could hear now the crowd of people beginning to disperse. The strangers departed first, those that did not live under the watch of the East Muster, followed by those that knew well the guard of Éomund and his men, and so knew his wife and shared some small part in this tragedy. At last, only family was left, and even as the sun began to grow savage and low in a red sky, Éomer finally found himself alone on the hillside. 

For a while, he stood and watched the breeze slither through the grass, weaving patterns over the earth too complex to catch hold off for long. It swept in with it a chill that had begun biting through his tunic, and he absently crossed his arms. Clouds had moved in at last, shadows in a darkening sky mottled with wisps of deep red and purple along their edges. It was a beautiful sunset; the sun had always reminded him of his mother. 

His shoulder was suddenly warmed as a hand was placed upon it, and Éomer turned his head, looking back to see his cousin standing close behind him. The boy blinked softly, gazing at Théodred, but did not speak. Instead he shoved his hands into the warm spaces beneath his arms. 

"I brought you this," Théodred said, lifting his other hand, which held in it a grey wool cloak. "You've been out here for many an hour." His last words were intended more to discover if the boy had any idea how long he's been standing by the grave side, but judging from Éomer's nod, Théodred believed he'd simply lost track of time. "Come," the man said softly, wrapping the cloak around Éomer's shoulders and turning him toward the path. 

They trudged along in silence, Éomer kicking now and again at small clumps of stray earth in his way. The leather of his boots scuffed against the dirt, leaving a chalky layer of dust over the deep brown of his boots, but Théodred refrained from comment. As they approached the gates of Edoras, the boy stopped, clutching his cloak closed with small hands, and looked up at his cousin. Théodred, who had walked several more paces before realising he was no longer with company, turned back to look down the hill at him. 

"Théodred?" said Éomer, his brow drawn over thoughtful eyes. His cousin made an unintelligible sound. "What was it like, growing up without a mother?" For a moment he was afraid the man might not answer, but at last Théodred returned down the hill and knelt in front of him, meeting his eye. 

"Maybe easier than living with the loss of one," Théodred replied, allowing his head to tilt to the side to look at the boy askance. "And a might more strict, I am willing to wager," he added with the hint of a smile. "You uncle was rather ruthless when it came to the matter of chores and manners." His voice lowered conspiratorially and his eyes twinkled. 

Éomer could not help but grin at this, and his cousin ruffled his hair. "Come along," Théodred commanded lightly, standing and turning toward the gate. "There is a small feast tonight, to honour your mother, and I do not believe I have seen you eat in at least a day. Your mother would want you to grow tall and strong, and you certainly cannot expect to do that on meals of the wind." Théodred's smile was wide, and it seemed, contagious. 

"Like you?" Éomer asked, eyes brighter than Théodred had seen in many long weeks, and the man couldn't help but laugh as he gathered the boy to him in a fierce, brotherly embrace. 

"Perhaps," the man said, releasing the boy and standing. "But you must eat!" he added as they passed through the gates. 

Éomer nearly paused again, but suddenly he shouted, "Race you!" and took off with his cloak billowing behind him up the hill. An incoherent shout followed at his back but he ignored it. He was quite hungry, he realised, and if he had any hopes of being like Théodred, he had a mind to consume half of what was laid out at the feast in the Golden Hall. He forced his legs to push him faster as the heavy footfalls of his cousin sounded not too far behind him, and they both ran on, leaving behind a cold echo of the only life he'd ever known. 


End file.
